


you're holding me stronger

by witching



Series: you've been like a light [8]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, Complicated Relationships, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Heart-to-Heart, Insecurity, M/M, Martim Week 2021, Martim week: stakeout/follow up, Mentioned Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29207373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Tim leans in closer, lowers his voice to a smooth purr. "So I fluttered my eyelashes and I saidMate, listen. We'll get the work done, you know we will, Martin won't let me slack off. I just want to spend some time with him, I think we work really well together. Winning team, me and Marto.And Jon looked like he just took a big bite of a lemon wedge, and then he said it was fine as long as we got going right away."Mortified, Martin shakes his head, buries his face in his hands. "Tim, I swear… can you not go five minutes without embarrassing me on purpose?""I'm just being honest, Martin.""You're being a prick, Tim."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: you've been like a light [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668694
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	you're holding me stronger

**Author's Note:**

> happy martim week we're getting into it! we love to see it!!

_you seem too good  
too good to be true  
you're holding me stronger  
stronger than i'm used to  
_

// carly rae jepsen, 'tug of war'

* * *

"How'd you get him to agree to this?" Martin asks, tipping his head in what he hopes is the direction of the Institute, but he's never been an expert at spatial awareness. In any case, Tim knows what he means, and _who_ he means.

"You really want to know?" Tim says with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. It makes Martin think that maybe he doesn't actually want to know, but it's too late to say anything, because Tim doesn't really pause before continuing, "I asked him nicely."

"You did not," Martin scoffs. 

"I did!" Tim insists defensively. "I pulled him aside and said _Hey, Jon, I know you were planning to send Martin and Sasha out to watch some guy's flat, and I was just wondering if there's any way you could possibly let me go in Sasha's place?_ And he gave me that Jon look, you know how he narrows his eyes and purses his lips when he thinks you're being an idiot but he doesn't actually have the evidence to back it up."

Martin nods his head because he does know the look well, and Tim leans in closer, lowers his voice to a smooth purr. "So I fluttered my eyelashes and I said _Mate, listen. We'll get the work done, you know we will, Martin won't let me slack off. I think we work really well together. Winning team, me and Marto._ And Jon looked like he just took a big bite of a lemon wedge, and then he said it was fine as long as we got going right away."

Mortified, Martin shakes his head, buries his face in his hands. "Tim, I swear… can you not go _five_ minutes without embarrassing me on purpose?"

"I'm just being _honest,_ Martin."

"You're being a _prick,_ Tim."

Tim just beams at him, and Martin shakes his head again, but he can't help a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. All told, regardless of Jon's thoughts on the matter and his rancid attitude, Martin doesn't really mind that Tim seems intent on reminding Jon of their _thing_ at least every other day. There's a fierce sort of pride igniting in his chest at being _shown off_ in that way, as well as something a bit darker, a petty little voice in his head. _Yeah,_ it says, _go ahead and tell him how much you like me. Tell him how hot and smart and funny you think I am. Maybe he'll believe it, coming from you._

He doesn't say any of that, of course. He tries to remind himself that Jon's opinion is irrelevant, because Tim knows these things and that's all that matters. He doesn't even want to _think_ about how Jon feels about his relationship with Tim, as he’s spent far too much of his own time and energy thinking about that lately, so he faces forward and gets on with the job they're here to do. Tim follows his lead, apparently satisfied with his own mischief for now. 

For a while, there’s nothing but silence in the car, and Martin doesn’t mind. It’s no great inconvenience for him to sit there quietly and breathe in the scent of Tim’s cologne, or deodorant, or maybe Tim just naturally smells like that, Martin wouldn’t be too surprised. In any case, it’s a nice smell, a rich, earthy spice to which he’s grown quite accustomed. It’s comfortable. He’s comfortable.

Tim, though. Tim has never been able to sit still a day in his life. He tries his best, he really does, but he’s in his element when he’s moving, when he’s talking. He wasn’t made to be stationary, and Martin can feel him vibrating out of his skin from two feet away. He knows what Tim is thinking, both because he knows Tim better than he knows himself, and also because Tim is thinking very loudly. Martin also knows that _Tim_ knows that fucking in the car during a stakeout is far beyond what Martin will allow, so Tim will keep his hands, if not his thoughts, to himself.

Just when the nervous energy in the car is about to boil over, Tim makes the smart decision to find something to talk about, rather than act on the other impulses running through his head. “I’m bored,” he states plainly, and Martin starts slightly at the unexpected sound, but recovers in time to hear Tim continue, “Let’s play truth or dare.”

“We’re stuck in a car, Tim,” Martin points out, all good humor and fondness, “what kind of dares could we even do?”

“Alright, just truths then,” Tim answers with a shrug. “Or, if you like, you can pick dare and I’ll just dare you to give me a little kiss.”

Martin laughs at that, rolls his eyes. "And what am I meant to do when _you_ pick dare?"

Grinning, Tim throws him a little wink before replying, "Use your imagination." He pauses, his face softening, then adds, "I won't say dare if you don't want me to."

"I don't mind if you do, actually," Martin shoots back with a similar smile, "because I can dare you to leave me alone if you get cheeky."

"That's just cruel," Tim pouts, leaning over to blanket the side of Martin's body with his own, looking up at him plaintively. "You couldn't think of anything _fun_ we can do?"

"I think I would have quite a lot of fun if you shut your mouth," Martin replies easily, completely without rancor. It still feels too mean, though, so he softens the blow with a quick kiss on the crown of Tim's head, now conveniently within reach. 

He wraps an arm around Tim, ruffles his hair lightly, and Tim sighs contentedly and leans into him harder. "So," he says casually, conversationally, "truth or dare, Marto?"

Martin rolls his eyes again, and thinks that if he doesn't stop doing that, they might fall out of his head. "Truth."

Pulling back to face Martin properly, Tim puts one foot up on his seat and rests his chin on his knee. The combination of the posture and the look on Tim's face puts Martin in mind of adolescent sleepovers – not that he ever had that particular experience, but he’s seen films – and he, absurdly, half expects the question to be something along the lines of _D'you fancy anyone?_ but instead Tim asks, "When was the last time you had an actual conversation with Jon?"

"Why do you care?" is Martin's reflexive response, putting up his defenses because he _really_ doesn't want to talk about this. He knows why Tim cares, knows that he's a gossip at heart but also that he doesn't do well in situations where two of his friends are fighting. Not that Martin and Jon are fighting, per se, but Tim can tell that something is off, and he thinks he can fix it if Martin just tells him what's going on.

He can't fix it, but Martin would never be able to convince him of that. Tim just raises an expectant eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer, so Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh and thinks about it for a moment, as if he doesn't remember the exact day and time that it happened. "If we're defining _actual conversation_ as a substantial interaction that wasn't mostly about work? Probably… three weeks? Maybe a month?"

"Are you avoiding him, or is he avoiding you?" Tim asks, then adds before Martin can get a word in, "Or both? It's both, isn't it?"

"It's not your turn," Martin chides, just the tiniest hint of an edge in his tone. "Truth or dare?"

"Ah, you got me," replies Tim. "Truth."

Martin taps his chin thoughtfully, folds his arms across his chest. Glances once across the street to see if there's anything interesting happening with the building they're supposed to be watching, but there isn't, so he's still stuck trying to think of a good question. Tim is such an open book and such an enigma at the same time, Martin is caught halfway between not knowing what to ask and not knowing where to _start._

In the end he figures that it's probably best to play it safe and classic. And to maybe get Tim to stroke his ego, a bit. "When did you first realize you were into me?"

Tim raises his eyebrows, a small sound of surprise leaving him. He takes a moment to collect himself, then another moment to think on his answer, and a third moment to pretend to be embarrassed about it. Then he says, "I should have thought this through better."

"Yes, you probably should have," Martin replies, his voice smooth and serene, all of his amusement and annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He doesn't feel bad for putting Tim on the spot, not after what Tim asked him, and not when it was his idea in the first place. "Answer the question, Tim."

"Fine, okay," says Tim, his cheeks visibly flushed. Martin thinks, almost wistfully, about reaching out and touching him, feeling that heat beneath his hand, but then he wouldn't get to hear Tim's answer. "The first time I knew I wanted to fuck you was two weeks before I met you. I was in the library, grabbing some books to cross-reference for research. I think Jon had sent me, actually – he was always Jon, you know, even before he was in charge. Anyway, I asked Julien to grab something for me, and they said it was in a box on a shelf and they couldn't get it down, so I watched them walk over to you and ask you for help, and I watched you lift that box like it was nothing, and I kind of short-circuited a bit."

Martin laughs at that, and Tim smacks him lightly on the arm. "I'm _serious,"_ he says petulantly, "you broke me. I was offline for the rest of that afternoon. You can ask Jon, I'm sure he remembers scolding me for not getting any work done."

His face heating up, Martin shakes his head. "You're ridiculous," he says.

"Maybe I am," admits Tim, "but not because of that. It was a reasonable human reaction to seeing an insanely hot guy demonstrate the immense strength that he tries to hide under deceptive jumpers."

"My jumpers are not _deceptive,"_ Martin protests, his voice going all high and defensive. "They're comfortable and warm."

"I know they are, I've worn them several times," Tim reminds him. “Anyway, there’s more to my answer, do you want to hear it or not?”

Martin nods his head, not too eagerly, and Tim smiles and continues, “The first time I realized I was _into_ you was different. You know, there’s seeing someone and thinking they’re hot, and then there’s being into someone, and I am… beyond into you. I didn’t know that until after we properly met, of course, but it didn’t take long. I think it was maybe a month? Sasha would probably remember better than me, I’m not good with dates, but I remember the conversation I had with her about you.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Martin does the mental math and says, “A _month?_ You knew after a month and it took you until I was living in the archives to make a move?”

For a moment, Tim looks almost embarrassed, and then he replies, “I already told you why I waited to say anything. I’m to blame for giving you space when you were clearly pining over someone else?”

Closing his eyes in a stunning display of patience, Martin takes a breath before saying, his voice low and even, “No, of course not. Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Tim assures him instantly. “It’s also not your fault you’re in love with an oblivious wanker.”

“He’s not –,” Martin begins, and then cuts himself off, because, “Okay, yeah, he is. But I’m not – I can’t very well be in love with him when we don’t even speak to each other, can I? It’s a crush. It’s nothing you have to worry about, either, as I’ve said many times.”

“I know, I know,” says Tim apologetically, “I’m not – you know, I _feel_ insecure sometimes, but I’m not _actually_ insecure, not in my rational brain, at least. I’m just a _little_ bit afraid that someone – maybe him, maybe not – is going to realize that you’re one in a billion and steal you away from me.”

“I can’t be stolen, Tim,” Martin points out slowly. “I’d have to _choose_ someone else over you, and I just don’t see that happening.”

Smiling gently, Tim nods his understanding and appreciation. "I know. And if you did, that would be okay, it's not like we're – I mean, we haven't talked about being _exclusive_ or anything, it's fine if you wanted to – with anyone, I wouldn't mind." He stops himself there, rather than trying to fumble through any more ambiguous, scattered thoughts, and adds lightly, “I'm just saying if everyone knew what I know, I'd never even get the chance to be near you, you'd be _swamped_ with suitors."

Martin narrows his eyes. "What is it that you know?" 

Tim grins at him now, all gleeful mischief. "I know that you can throw me around like a sack of potatoes," he says matter-of-factly. "And I also know that you're kind and funny and brilliant and altogether probably the most lovely person in the world."

"Alright," Martin says in a warning tone, the kind that carries an unspoken _that's enough_ with it.

"I'm just _saying,"_ Tim insists, but thankfully decides to move on rather than push the issue. "Anyway, it's my turn. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," Martin answers without thinking about it.

"Okay," Tim chirps brightly, without skipping a beat, "why have you been avoiding Jon?"

"Changed my mind. Dare."

"I dare you to answer my question."

"Tim…"

"Martin…"

Turning away from Tim to face forward with a huff, Martin folds his arms across his chest, looking rather more put out than he actually is. "We’re supposed to be working," he says flatly, and then, “You don’t want to hear it, anyway.”

There's a beat of silence before Martin turns his head back toward Tim to see him chewing on his lip. He looks like he's considering something very deep, and then he just says, "Why not?"

_In for a penny,_ Martin thinks, and _It's not like he hasn't heard worse,_ and with that he's resolved to tell the truth rather than keep evading Tim's questions. "You don't want to hear it because it's to do with you. I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want to put this on you."

Tim gasps out loud, practically bouncing in his seat. "Put _what_ on me?" he asks breathlessly. "If you're trying to convince me to drop it, you're doing a shit job of it. I do want to hear it, very much, possibly more than I've ever wanted anything."

“Fine, fine,” Martin says, waving him off with an irritated hand. He waits for Tim to sit back in his seat calmly before continuing, "Last time we spoke, he gave me… ah… hm. He gave me a talk? It was. Honestly, it kind of pissed me off, that's the main reason I haven't been talking to him unless I have to."

_"What kind of talk?"_ Tim asks, leaning in closer, his voice strained with desperate, impatient curiosity.

"It was…" Martin pauses, clears his throat, puts on his best Jon voice. _"I've noticed that you seem to be spending quite a bit of time with Tim these days,"_ he grumbles, _"and of course, there's nothing wrong with that inherently."_

For a moment it looks as if Tim is about to say something, his brows drawn together and his eyes simmering with thinly veiled anger, but Martin holds up a finger for him to wait. "It gets better," he says in his own voice, then back to imitating Jon: _"I am somewhat concerned about the message that it sends to others, though, to see you going home together. Every night."_

He shifts in his seat, his own irritation resurfacing at remembering the conversation. "I said something about how he and Sasha are the only people who see us going home together every night, and Sasha definitely couldn't care less, and he shut down really fast after that. Then I pointed out that it's entirely possible that we just leave together to go to the same tube station, and the only reason he _knows_ that that's not the case is because he _asked,_ and then I left because I didn't want to say something I couldn't take back."

The small “Like what?” from Tim is so quiet as to almost be inaudible, and Martin looks at him with narrowed eyes until he adds, “Come on, how often do you get to talk about this stuff? You can vent, this is a safe space.”

Martin rolls his eyes at that, but he knows it’s sincere. He takes a breath, rubs his eyes, drags his fingers down his cheeks. “I just didn’t think it was the appropriate time to air any of my _many_ grievances with him. Am I overreacting? You can tell me if I am, but I don’t think I am.” He pauses, takes a breath, closes his eyes for a second to calm himself down. “It’s just – _wildly_ hypocritical of him to make like he’s so professional and dignified, after he got me drunk and kissed me and then ignored me for weeks and also, lest we forget, _literally had sex with you._ And all of that _inside_ his precious archives! And then to come to me and tell me that our relationship is sending any kind of _message…”_

Tim just gapes at him for a long second, processing the whole thing, then shakes his head as if to clear it like an Etch-a-Sketch. "Christ, he's unbelievable. Absolutely fucking unbelievable. I wish you'd told me sooner that he said that to you, I'd have torn him a new one."

"Yeah, I know," Martin says slowly, in the manner of one who is explaining something obvious to someone who should be able to get it without being told, "that's _why_ I didn't tell you."

"God, and I've been making it so much _worse,"_ Tim says with dawning horror. "Why didn't you tell me to shut up? I thought it was just messing around!"

"To be fair, I did tell you very plainly that you were being a prick," Martin reminds him. "I just didn't tell you why."

An odd look crosses Tim's face, and it takes Martin a second to realize that it's a deep, sincere remorse, something he's never seen from Tim before. The expression goes away quickly, but it lingers in his voice when he makes his reply. "I can fix this," he says, soft and sad and fierce all in one. "I'll talk to him, I'll tell him –,”

"No, Tim, come on," Martin interrupts, a bit sharper than he intends. "It's fine, I'll get over it."

"You won't," Tim scoffs, a bit harshly, but Martin knows he doesn’t mean anything by it. "You don't _get over_ things, we both know it. And to be honest, I'm a little miffed myself, so it's not like I'm just coming in to fight your battles, or what have you. I want to set him straight for both our sakes."

"Fine," Martin concedes, heaving a sigh, "if you must. Just make sure he knows that I didn't ask you to do it."

Tim gives him a little nod of agreement, bites his lip, and asks, "Anything you want me specifically not to say?" 

"I mean, I'd rather you not tell him in detail about our sex life," Martin says, a bit of levity returning to color his voice. After a beat, he adds, almost timidly, "And please don't tell him I'm mad at him? I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"I'm not sure it's possible to hurt Jon's feelings,” Tim says with a short, bitter laugh. “And it's not like he cares about hurting your feelings."

"Tim,” Martin warns – that particular tone is starting to feel overused.

Shaking his head, Tim mutters, "Sorry, that was rude. I'm just – God, it makes me so mad, that he thinks he can do shit like this, after everything that we've – I'll keep my cool, I promise. And I won't tell him you're mad at him."

Martin offers up a grateful little smile. "Thank you."

"I will tell him _I'm_ mad at him, though," says Tim.

"Gei gezunterheit," Martin replies. "I think you're entitled to that, seeing as you've had his dick in your mouth."

"You've had his tongue in your mouth," Tim shoots back easily. 

"Right, there's a spectrum of correlation," Martin explains matter-of-factly, as if it’s all very scientific. "Tongue means I can be mad at him, but I can't talk to him about it."

Looking at him with a furrow between his brows, Tim points out, "That's ridiculous.”

Martin turns his nose up, as if Tim is simply too plebeian to understand the intricacies of his theory. "Yeah, well,” he says petulantly, “it's my rule that I just made up, so it doesn't need to make sense to you."

Tim laughs, shaking his head. "Fair enough," he allows, then reaches out his hand, giving Martin the choice of whether he wants to take it. He does, wrapping his fingers around Tim's and squeezing gently. It's quiet for a beat, and then Tim asks, "Where are we on that scale?"

"We're well past having to worry about that," Martin answers easily. "We can tell each other anything, can't we?"

Tim gives him a warm little smile. "Course we can," he says, looking away from Martin's face in a manner that can only be described as bashful.

Martin watches him but doesn't say anything, too caught up in the spots of color on Tim's cheeks and his thick eyelashes and the warm weight of Tim's hand in his own. He simply doesn't have anything to say in this moment. He's content.

"Oh, shit," Tim mutters some time later, when his wandering gaze passes over the time display, "I didn't even notice how long we've been here. Time flies when you’re very diligently doing the work you were assigned and nothing else, am I right?”

“Yeah,” Martin says sardonically, “that’s exactly what we’ve been doing.”

_“Exactly,”_ Tim echoes with a conspiratorial grin. “D'you want to get some food, or just go home?"

"I could eat," Martin answers with a shrug. "I could also cook, if you like."

"Shut up," Tim replies, snappy but not unkind, as he starts driving. "As if I would make you make me breakfast after the night we've had."

"What kind of night have we had?" Martin asks with a tone of innocent curiosity.

Brow furrowed, Tim glances over at him quickly, as if to make sure it's not a trap. "A long one," he says cautiously, and then tips from serious into playfully serious territory as he adds, "It's been very hard for me, you know, with you sitting there being you and me trying so hard to stay professional."

Rolling his eyes, Martin gives Tim a small laugh, not enough to convince him that he’s actually funny, just enough to remind him that Martin loves him anyway. "If this has been what you consider professional, I would like to see what you consider unprofessional."

Tim smiles wide and bright, looking proud of himself. "I could pull over and show you," he says, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. "Spoiler alert: it mostly involves me climbing on top of you and kissing you very hard for a long time, and then just going wherever that takes us."

"I never could have guessed," Martin replies drily. "Buy me breakfast first. We can be unprofessional when we've eaten. And when we're at your flat. Absolutely not in a car on the side of the road."

Tim gives a little mock salute, declares, "Your wish is my command," and drives on.


End file.
